


first sacrifice to the warriors

by Kieron_ODuibhir



Series: the oracle at delphi [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Barbara's Conspicuous Absence, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Family, Future Fic, Gen, Jason is a good bro, Tim Is Doing His Best, and honestly a major character in the fandom sometimes, but he'll never give up on his Robin, dark future that persists in being less dark than it ought to be, is one of the main characters of this series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/pseuds/Kieron_ODuibhir
Summary: "I just…the Oracle isn’t her. But it has all her memories, and if I talk with it enough I might start to forget. She deserves better than that. Barbara isdead.”“Just not quite gone.” Jay tilted his head a little, thoughtfully, the red surface of his helmet sliding under his fingertips. “And the brat’s gone, but maybe not quite dead. Can’t fault your choice of which one to hang on to, at least.”





	first sacrifice to the warriors

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, just what I needed, another series. This has been hanging around mostly complete for a couple of years, in fact, ever since I decided to sort out exactly what was going on at the other end of the call in 'their faces turned to sunset.'
> 
> I'm oddly attached to this timeline. Carrie will be back next time, if it comes. Because I love her.

The road was not in great repair, and the motorcyclist wove frequently to avoid being thrown.

He seemed to be in no particular hurry, and while the mirrored red visor made it impossible to tell exactly where his attention lay, he navigated around the potholes and other terrain hazards in a lackadaisical manner that suggested he considered them neither challenge nor threat. Odds were, he was focused on the scenery.

It was scenery worth watching, even worth biking out for specifically—the poorly-maintained road had just finished winding along the margin of a small mountain lake, clean and mirror-still, and now it climbed gently through deciduous new-growth forest; mostly still a settled summer green, with scattered individual leaves just beginning to turn fiery at the edges, and the occasional great burst of orange or red, where an individual tree was apparently in a hurry to get on with the new season.

The cyclist idled slowly to a halt in front of a particularly triumphal example, an unusually large maple whose leaves went from warm gold on the highest twigs to deep scarlet on the lowest-hanging branches. Kicked a foot down, and then turned to look not at the magnificent tree, but at the tumblestone wall in its shade.

There was a steel gate set into a gap in the wall, the low, wide, bent-piping kind sufficient to keep out vehicles but little obstacle for anything on feet, but it was crooked and rusty, and unlatched, and if he intended to ride up the rutted lane it protected he probably wouldn’t even have to dismount; he could just drive into the gate slowly to push it out of his way.

“Hey,” he greeted.

The man seated with every evidence of comfort on the long erratic line of the old stone wall was more obviously abnormal than the motorcyclist. In place of anything that would conventionally be considered ‘clothing’ he wore an armored full-body leotard blazoned with the device of a blue bird-of-prey _volant_ , whose close fit displayed to the world that even if his youth was past he was still lean and strong as ever. His face was masked. His temples threaded silver. He would have been immediately recognizable to perhaps one-half of the television-viewing public as the veteran superhero Nightwing, the second leader of the Teen Titans; most often seen unexpectedly leaping to the rescue in all quarters of the world, or assuming a position of leadership within the Justice League in times of emergency.

Nightwing smiled in response to the greeting, returned it with a small nod while giving the new arrival an efficient once-over, and then raised both eyebrows above the edge of his domino mask. “A ten-year-old Kawasaki? Seriously?”

“Go to hell,” the biker directed pleasantly. Killed the engine, kicked down the kickstand, and pulled off his helmet.

His bare face was tanned and bore minor scarring over strong bones, and his hair was dark except for the white patch above the center of his forehead. “It’s a perfectly good machine,” he said, twisting to hang the helmet beside the saddlebags. A crow called out, somewhere in the trees. “Anyway, you didn’t see the selection last time I had to change rides. It was pretty much this or a Luxury Four-Door Pickup of Hugeness. In white,” he added, just to underline such a vehicle’s unsuitability.

Nightwing cracked an easy smile. “Oh, _those_ things. For people too insecure to just buy a minivan, right?”

“Avoiding-midlife-crisis-by-skin-of-teeth-mobile.”

“Hah. But hey, midlife crises, aren’t you getting to be about the age for one?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘P’ slightly between his lips and folded his arms across the handlebars. “I measure my age from when I came _back_ to life. Meaning I’m a sprightly twenty-something, thank you very much. Anyway _you’re_ one to talk, old man.”

“Only as old as you feel, Jay.”

“Making you about, what, eleventy-nine?”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“Oh yeah.” The cyclist looked the costumed crimefighter up and down, lingering on the lines at the corners of his mouth and the shadows in his cheeks, the places along his body where if you knew how this kind of costume fit, you knew there was a little too much bone showing. If the mask came off, there was little doubt bruises would show under his eyes. “I can see that.”

A snort from Nightwing. “Who died and made you my mother?”

“Alfred.”

Blue-striped gloves clenched and released under gold and crimson leaves. “…that was a low blow.”

“Hey, you asked. Gotta defend my number-one-asshole title somehow. You were moving in on my turf.”

“Thought you lost that title in that overly literal Halloween trick-or-treat competition, back when.”

“Yeah, well. Unless we’re counting ‘being missing’ as one long asshole move, the demon brat dropped out of the competition years ago.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” The words were hard-edged. A kestrel shrilled from the direction of the lake, and the crows jeered back at it.

“ _Bro._ ”

The syllable was heavy with layers of meaning, but all a stranger could be sure of was that he sounded a little bit sad, a little bit angry.

Nightwing threw out his next words like a challenge. “I saw him. In Comoros.”

“Or you saw just another clone.”

“No. It was Damian.”

“You don’t even know he’s still alive.”

“He’s alive. And I’m _getting_ him back.”

“…saying things in a determined tone of voice doesn’t actually make them more true, though I can see how you got that idea. Good voice, by the way.”

“Shut up.”

The motorcyclist shook his head. “People are worried about you, ya know. You’ve gotten more obsessive than the old man ever was.”

The costumed crimefighter collapsed back across his throne of stones, so all he had to look at was blazing oak leaves. “Yeah, well, since it turned out his trying to be sane about losing you was the _wrong_ decision, I don’t see that I have a lot of reason to rein myself in.”

Silence greeted this, even the birdcalls hushed and distant and the wind gentle, until finally Nightwing tipped his head down, as though to check that the other man was still there.

He was, and he shrugged, produced a crooked, almost-meaningless smile, and swung one leg over his bike so that he was sitting facing the superhero instead of looking prepared to leave any second. “Yeah, I got nothing to counter that with. Drive yourself into the ground and straight through the crust of the earth, with my blessing.”

The sound Nightwing made was half laugh, half growl of frustration. Over the treetops the kestrel could be seen circling, watching the cleared places near the margins of the lake for prey. “Do you know _anything_ that might help.”

“Hey, you know all my al Ghul sources dried up a long time ago. Good thing I never thought what I had with Talia was anything serious, otherwise she’d’ve just _broken_ my little _heart._ ”

“Would you stop talking like the Joker and be serious for one minute?”

The roadside bellowed with silence, and Nightwing swallowed.

“Sorry. That was _my_ low blow.”

“Ya think?” The other man struck a match with the words, held it to the end of a cigarette until the tobacco flared dull red, sucked in sharply to encourage it. Breathed out smoke as he flicked the match into a pothole. “At this rate, I should go check up on the Great Replacement. Can’t possibly get a ruder reception.”

“Tim’s always—” Nightwing said, and then checked himself. “Just don’t be too hard on the new kid, okay?”

“Hey, if _he_ picked her out, she’s gotta be up to standard. You know what he’s like.”

“Mm,” Nightwing said, not quite agreeing. “Mostly, she reminds me of him. The way he started out. But also me. And Stephanie.”

“Not me?” the smoker asked, mellow, disinterested. Lying with his voice, though not his words.

“Sometimes you most of all. But not Damian. Not ever.”

“Well, you gotta admit. Kid was one weird-ass Robin.” A thoughtful burst of smoke that spread over Nightwing and made him wrinkle his nose. “And it’s not like Grown-Ass Dress-Up’s got a lot of incentive to immortalize his replacement’s impact on the legacy.”

“…I just feel like he’s disappearing. Like he was never even real. If we knew he was dead he’d have a grave, at least, you know? I kind of want to put up a statue.”

“Or a glass case?”

“No, come on, that’s tacky. But yeah. Same idea. Except what do I even put on the plaque?” He raised a hand, tracing an invisible engraving with sarcastic pomposity. “‘Damian Wayne: Born 2000 AD? I Swear To Fuck I Will Bring Him Home.’”

The words hung in the air for a second, mingling with cigarette smoke, and then his companion shrugged. “That sounds pretty good, actually. Maybe without the question mark, and depending on where you plan to put this up, maybe nix the swearing. But you could do worse.”

Nightwing’s tiny burst of laughter seemed to surprise him. “Well. If you think so. Guess it’s an idea, then.”

Slow, judicious nod. “I’ll give the new kid the Dead Robins talk. Bet Bitty Bat’s been skimping.”

“…you’re seriously going home?”

“It’s a travesty I haven’t met this girl yet. Want to form my own impressions.”

“I won’t say any more, then.” Nightwing rolled his lips in over his teeth and bit down gently, pinning his own mouth closed.

Rolled eyes. “Serve you right if I clocked you in the chin right now.”

The lips came free to pull into a smile. “Do I really have to be careful not to leave weaknesses around you, little brother?”

“I’m just saying when you bite one lip, it’s a risk, when you’re biting both you’re just _asking_ to be made sorry.” He took another long pull of smoke, and when Nightwing made a face he laughed, threw the remainder of his cigarette on the ground, and stepped on it. “Yeah, I know. These things’ll kill me.”

“I hear it’s a horrible way to go.”

The younger brother shrugged. “Had worse. But secondhand smoke is an asshole move, so.”

Nightwing laughed. It was a little hollow. “I’m not a kid, Jay.”

That earned him a smirk. “Not having a good time being family patriarch?”

“Go to hell,” Nightwing directed. “I’m the oldest, not the _patriarch._ That is not a job I’m taking on twice.”

“That’s what you said about the cowl.”

“Bite me, that was _your_ fault.”

The younger brother shrugged agreeably, and Nightwing shook his head. “You know what Tim said to me? After I yelled at him about agreeing to let random middle school girls come train in the Cave and wear the Robin costume, after everything that’s happened, without saying a word to anyone.”

“All things considered, ‘screw you’ sounds appropriate. Or, wait, no: ‘Batman needs a Robin?’”

“Don’t be stupid, _he’s_ Batman now, what Batman needs doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Harsh.”

“Tell me I’m wrong. Sometimes I want to wring his neck. Anyway, he said she wasn’t going to turn out like him. That he wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Huh.”

Nightwing scowled. “Like Bruce didn’t say the same thing about all of us.”

“Yeah, well. Old man was good at a lot of things. Taking care of his people and keeping his promises weren’t two of ‘em.”

“He meant well.”

“Frequently,” the motorcyclist agreed, easily. “He even died well, gold star. I thought we agreed to let him rest.”

“As long as there’s a Batman he’ll never lie easy in his grave, and you know it.”

A wince. “How ‘bout just while he’s remembered?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Hah.” The man on the bike swung his leg back again to straddle it, picked up the helmet from the top of his saddlebags. “Guess I’m swinging by Gotham. Want me to remember you to Oracle?”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Nightwing bit out, suddenly stone.

“Whoah, hey. I know I say that all the time, but that’s me. And you…sounded kind of like you meant it.”

And just as suddenly the hero was flesh again, lounging with pointed insouciance on the uneven wall. “Ew, dude, no. That’s practically incest.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re trying to be funny?”

“Yes. No. Sorry. Just—don’t bring up the Oracle. It’s a rule, okay? The girls understand,” the hero added. His tone was sulky, and if it hadn’t been for the silver in his hair he could have been twenty still, or even younger.

The motorcyclist let that hang in the air for a little while before venturing, “I remember you being better at dealing with loss than this.”

Nightwing shook his head, one sharp impatient motion. “I cope. And I’m pretty good at _moving on_. When something’s gone past returning, I let it go. But she’s…still there, even though she’s not, and he’s just missing.” His tone turned thick and dark with self-reproach. “And I’ve let go too soon too many times now.”

“Are you imagining Oracle’s gonna magically turn back into Babs someday?”

“No. Though it would be one of the tamer resurrections we’ve seen, if she did. I just…the Oracle isn’t her. But it has all her memories, and if I talk with it enough I might start to forget.” He was silent for a second, then kicked at the ground and looked up to meet his brother’s gaze. “She deserves better than that. Barbara is _dead._ ”

The motorcyclist nodded. “Just not quite gone.” He tilted his head a little, thoughtfully, the red surface of his helmet sliding under his fingertips. “And the brat’s gone, but maybe not quite dead. Can’t fault your choice of which one to hang on to, at least.”

Nightwing’s smile was bitter, but not insincere. “Thanks.”

“All the same…” the man called Jay said at length, and Nightwing shook his head.

“I’m not giving up.”

He seemed about to leave it at that, and then started talking, a little too fast at first, like he thought he might think better of it, or someone might stop him. “Things go wrong a lot, in life. Especially our kind of life. It’s easy to get caught up in the regrets, in losses and failures and how far you are from where you ever wanted to be. But then there are those times—victories, relationships, even just single moments—that make you say okay. Okay, I can’t wish my life away, because if things had been different I couldn’t have had _this._

“Damian was…the first of those I’d had in a long time. And most of the last few before him wound up blowing up, or hating me, or both. I promised myself I’d take care of him.” His smile was wry, and crooked, and heartbreaking. “These days I understand why Bruce clocked me one when I yelled at him for getting you killed.”

Away over the lake, the kestrel hovered still, then sharply stooped, and plunged behind the trees.

“Heh.” Suddenly the man on the bike did look almost as old as Nightwing, and he spun the helmet between his hands like he was almost but not quite ready to put it on. “Yeah, it’s not a legacy I ever wanted upheld.”

Nightwing made a sound half like a laugh, half something entirely unlike one. “Sorry about that, then.”

Gloved hands tightened on the red helmet. “Hey,” their owner said. The tone was rebuke, but terribly gentle. “It wasn’t your fault. Losing the kid. _Plenty_ of other shit is, you still majorly suck, but _that_ is _not_ on you.”

Nightwing shook his head, and smiled, and stood up. “I’m sick to death of making sacrifices, Jay.”

The kestrel’s high, ratcheting call rose up from wherever it had landed. It was the skirling _kikiki-ki!_ of excitement rather than the whine that meant ‘go away I’m eating,’ which meant the prey had probably escaped. The crows did not take the opportunity to jeer. They had probably moved on.

“Price of living,” the Red Hood suggested.

“Nah. _Loss_ , maybe, but sacrifices are something you choose. And I don’t want to choose that anymore.”

The motorcyclist put his helmet back on, adjusted it around his skull. “How ‘bout we both drop by Gotham, then?” The question was muffled, but perfectly comprehensible. “Make sure the kid we’ve still got knows we haven’t given up on him.”

The lines around Nightwing’s mouth creased deeper, and he seemed almost as if he would leap backward over the wall and be gone into the wood. “I can’t….”

“If you don’t want to talk to the Oracle, just… _don’t._ It’s not like it can’t contact you anywhere on earth if it tries. It obviously respects your boundaries.”

“Stop.”

“Why? Is that not your real reason?”

“No!” Nightwing’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “No, it’s real. I just…don’t want to go back to Gotham.”

“…I’m pretty sure you’re over the old man not being there anymore,” said Jay. “So it’s not that.” Drummed his fingers on the top of his saddlebag. “You worried if you go back you won’t be able to leave again? Or…”

Nightwing shrugged. Busted. Jay’s fingers twitched like he was wishing he had his cigarette back, or maybe wishing for a weapon.

“No one’s making you choose between Tim and Damian, dude. That’s all in your head. I’m not saying the brat wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, but it’s good for kids to learn how to share. And you said you were tired of making sacrifices.”

“I…look, it’s not about that, it’s just if I let myself move on and get comfortable with the way things are now, I might…start to let go.”

“…at the risk of being your new mom some more,” the Red Hood said, “forcing yourself to be unhappy because if you let yourself recover you might, ya know, _recover,_ is technically a sacrifice too. And not even just of yourself, so like…stop growing up to be your dad. You can keep looking for the kid without having to be in a perpetual midlife crisis about it.”

“Ow.” But Nightwing stepped forward from his seat of stones, out of the shadow of the tree like a pillar of flame, moving more like a weight had been ripped from his shoulders than newly set there. Away over the lake, feathers rattled as the kestrel launched itself back into the air, and went back to its circling.

The engine revved to life, and the Hood jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get on, loser. We’re heading home.”


End file.
